Light of Dawn
by Naria Moonpaw
Summary: A seventh-year girl who finds a way to look past Snape's slimy exterior, a peek into his past, and speculation as to why he is so bitter.
1. Gripes

Gripes.

I promise this is very brief, but it is extremely important for you, the reader, to know why I am writing this story.

Due to an obsession a few of my other Harry Potter-crazed friends have for a certain Professor Snape, I have read a great many so-called "Snapefics."  Because they were all written by Snape fans, I found almost all of them to have two similar traits, and these are my gripes.  (Please note that I said ALMOST.)  These are the two reasons why I, a non-Snape fan, decided to write a Snapefic.  Surely, written from my point of view, it will put a new spin on the character?

Gripe #1 – The Nice Guy Gripe

In almost every romance fanfic I read, Snape is made into a nice guy at some point or another.  I know, I know, he has special reasons for being nice to your character…that's what they all say.  Face the facts, dearie—the guy's a jerk.

Gripe #2 – The Evil Potter Gripe

I can't tell you how sick I am of reading Snapefics that portray James Potter as the biggest jerk to ever walk the face of the Earth, even outdoing Voldemort in his evilness.  Often this is extended to his group of friends (though generally, to my amusement, my favorite character—Lupin—is made out to be the nicest one of the bunch).  James Potter was not some malicious bully who always picked on poor widdle Snapie-poo; he and Snape had a MUTUAL RIVALRY.

I intend to amend these things I see as misconceptions in the following Snapefic.

Thank you for suffering through this.  Have a corking day.


	2. Blue Smoke

Part 1 ~ Blue Smoke

Pale hydrangia-hued smoke swirled around the stone chamber, playing on every thing it passed.  It floated in wisps by tall shelves of glinting bottles and neatly ordered packages around the perimeter of the room.  While some of it coiled upward to the ceiling, a thin, dreamlike layer hovered just above the chill floor like fog over a grass field in the early morning.  The lightly scented smoke crisscrossed its way around the long, graceful hands stirring the potion from which the blue fog issued.  It alighted on dark, robed shoulders and lingered about shining but probably unwashed ebony hair.  The man inhaled deeply, drinking in the calm silence.

His quiet reverie was suddenly interrupted by a soft flutter of wings as a tawny great horned owl landed on its perch nearby.  It looked at him, cocked its head to one side, and hooted softly.  In an attempt to ignore it, the man refused to look up.  Uninhibited, the owl made a curious whirring noise; with that it had its master's attention.

"All right, fine, I'm coming," Severus Snape snapped.  Satisfied, the owl took off again in search of an open window.  Snape slapped his glass stirring rod down on a nearby table and cursed aloud; he hated interruptions, and he had been so entranced by this potion that he had not noticed the steady pass of time.  The extra hour or two he always gave himself for his work in the morning never seemed to last long enough for him to find any joy in making progress.  As he reluctantly left the silver cauldron, he heaved a resentful sigh.  How cruel it was to make him teach first-years in the earliest class of the day.  And on a Monday, too.  And it was only the second Monday of the term.

It was not, he mused as he ascended the stairs from his dungeon-like workroom, the actual teaching of the subject that he disliked.  Despite the fact that he felt he was far better qualified to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts than anyone else, he knew that concerning Potions, he had not only experience but talent as well, and he thoroughly adored the subject.  Furthermore, he could understand why Dumbledore did not yet want to associate him with the Dark Arts; after all, it had only been four years since he had begun to work against Voldemort, who just last year had disappeared—the amount of tension that still lingered around the name was immeasurable.

Snape slammed the door to the Potions classroom open so hard that it smashed against the wall before swinging back.  The terrified first-years sat frozen in their seats; they looked at him as if he were Boo Radley.  He grinned inwardly at the thought.  Before he had even made it to his desk he had already reprimanded a Ravenclaw and taken ten house points, for which he mentally congratulated himself.  The girl hadn't even fought back against her punishment.  They were awfully meek today; even when he collected the essay that he knew had been a most common topic of grumbling outside of his classroom, they remained completely silent.  Even so, he could almost feel the antipathy emanating from a few particular students.

It was often whispered that he didn't care what people thought of him, but that wasn't true.

He _loved_ what people thought of him.

It was deliciously easy making people despise him; and though he had tried the opposite once, he had found that to be completely impossible.  Indifference, polite indifference was the best he could ever manage—and so he found it much more satisfying to make people hate him, because then he could always find a way to extract raw emotion from them, pure and unmasked.  For some reason, he always felt a strange sense of accomplishment whenever he managed to get someone to throw down his or her polite barriers and let his or her undiluted loathing flow freely at him.  It gave him almost a feeling of superiority.  Even more so with his students—he had complete dictatorial power over them, and could egg them until an outburst occurred, then smack them down with a hefty punishment for disrespect.

…Power.  Yes…utter power over them.  Promises of such a thing had led him to join the Death Eaters in the third year of their existence, just as their strength was gradually beginning to grow, creeping toward its climax.  It was but a few years, however, before he understood entirely that he had absolutely no power whatsoever; he was just another of Voldemort's minions.  Willing to see to his master's every bidding, he was expendable, controllable, and completely replaceable.  He had actually found much more power in betraying his master than serving him, simply because then he was his own boss, and though he wasn't holding all the cards, at least he finally had a couple of his own.

But now, standing in front of the shivering first-years, he was pretty sure he had the whole damn deck, and all four jokers to boot.

"Pardon me…Are you…Professor Snape?"

He had just finished sliding the essays into his table drawer when he heard the voice and jerked his head up.  A well-postured girl stood in the door to the hall.

"Tardiness!" he hissed, eyes sharpening.

Assuming this to be an affirmative answer, she stepped further into the room.  "No, sir, it's my first day, and—"

"That does not mean I will excuse tardiness!  Now, girl, tell me your name, and I shall write you down for detention this afternoon."

The girl's brow furrowed confusedly.  Didn't he realize she wasn't in this class?

"SPEAK, girl!  Before I take fifty points from your house on your very first da—"

"I'm in _your_ house, sir."  Though her eyes remained very serious, her brows twitched skeptically, as if her mouth wanted very badly to smirk.  Snape, however, was back on his feet in no time (if, indeed, he was ever off them.)

"You should have said that in the beginning," he retorted, glaring icily down his long nose at her and pronouncing the words with the hard consonants all quite distinct, as though with each one he were attempting to prick her.

"Forgive me," she said quickly, but it was blazingly obvious that she didn't really mean it, she was just trying to propitiate him.  "Professor McGonagoll sent me to speak with you—I've just transferred.  This is my seventh year."  And as she stepped closer, he could see that she was obviously not eleven.

Putting on an exasperated face, he stood.  "Fine," he spat tersely, and it was clear that he meant it about as much as she had meant her plea for forgiveness.  He stepped into the short corridor leading to his office, and she followed without being told.


	3. The Frigid Office

A/N: I apologize for this chapter taking so long to post.  I've been studying for my AP exams.  I've already begun work on part three, so it should be up sooner.

Part 2 ~ The Frigid Office

_What a cobra.  No, maybe more like a black mamba.  Yes, definitely.  For all I know, he **could be slithering—I can't see his feet, and I definitely can't hear them.**_  In her mind's eye, the girl pictured the venomous serpent curled up in hibernation, its black coils glistening.  _Ugh.  He gives me the chills._  Even when they had reached his office, he still had not uttered another word; he didn't even bother to turn around to see if she was still there, much less hold the door open for her.  By now, though, her most optimistic attitude could not have made her expect such a thing, so she hadn't been disappointed.

The office, lit only by a few glass spheres on the walls, was so dim that at first she could hardly see anything save the outlines of hulking bookshelves and a desk.  Behind this desk, in a high-backed, velvet-upholstered chair, Snape seated himself.  Taking a small vial of clear liquid and an extra orb out of a hidden drawer, he made another lamp for his dark, oily desk.  A flick of his wand, and sickly green flames leapt up from the translucent potion.  Of course they weren't fairy-lamps; fairies were FAR too cheerful for _him._

He apparently decided that this was enough light to read by, for he leaned across the desk and snapped his fingers impatiently, prompting her to hand over her registration papers.  The sound rang hollowly in the otherwise silent room.  Although she hated being condescended to, she decided that in this situation it would behoove her to just obey.  Not wanting to get too near his icicle-looking hands, she slid the parchments across the desk.  He blinked at the top sheet for a moment, looking extremely bored.

"Phronesis Aurora?"

"Yes, sir," she answered.  She was usually called by her last name, which suited her just fine because she liked it much better than her given one.  Also, it was the only thing she still had from her birth parents—all of her memories of them had been frightened out of her by some event when she was nine.  She had heard later that her home had been one of the many sites that night of Death Eater raids, but she couldn't recall anything other than a patch of flowers.  An odd thing to remember from one's closest experience with the Dark Arts, flowers.  Almost as an affirmation of this, the flowers themselves were odd—liquid crimson blossoms dripping from a curved stalk, almost like scarlet bluebells.

Snape had already been musing over her papers for quite some time, but he showed no sign of planning to finish anytime soon, so Aurora took to looking around the room, which was becoming more visible as her eyes adjusted.  The bookcases were overflowing with parchments and empty bottles.  On the top shelf stood a particularly thick book that she found herself paying close attention to, the title of which was _Advanced Potions for the Dark Master: Deaths Silent, Painful, Prolonged, or—_  ...She was rather glad she couldn't read the last word.  Her breakfast thickened in her stomach and she seriously hoped that Snape had never felt any need to open that book on students.

"So," said Snape suddenly, startling her attention away from the book.  He casually tossed the papers back down on his desk, as if he had no concern for such petty things.  "Why are you here?"  His voice slid smoothly along the walls of the cold stone room, but the satiny quality of his words did not conceal the contempt he meant to imply.

She started into her explanation, trying to make it as brief as possible so that she could get it over with in a hurry; luckily for her, she had practiced this condensed recount of the past six years of her life twice already on Dumbledore and McGonagoll, so she was familiar enough with the story that she didn't pause or stutter even once.

Late in her eleventh summer she and her adoptive parents had devised a rather unorthodox method for her schooling.  She had attended five different world-renowned schools in her six previous years, in hope that she would find herself subjected to numerous different styles of education; purposely had her last and most important year been saved for Hogwarts.  Her previous year had been spent in an obscure province in China, where she had perfected her conversational Mandarin and illegal firework-making skills, but had learned relatively little practical magic.

Snape stopped her there as if he were afraid she might go one for another year if he let her.  Even though she had already finished by then, she still felt the twinge of irk at his sneering tone.

"Enough.  This is taking entirely too much of my ti—"

"I agree," Aurora interrupted suddenly, her voice flat and hard, so much so that she almost sounded disrespectful.  "I must get going.  I've got my schedule already.  Thank you very much for your time, Professor.  Shall I go consult Professor McGonagoll in the direction of Slytherin dorms?"  Never before in his entire teaching experience had a student ever interrupted Snape to agree with him, and consequently he found himself upon rather unstable ground for a moment.

"Er...yes," he growled.

Attempting not to outwardly show her eagerness to get the hell out of this meat locker he called an office, she leapt up and pounced at the doorknob.  She was not quick enough, though, since he stopped her before she managed to bolt out the door.

"Miss Aurora."

"...Yes?"

Evidently it had been much too soft an ending to a conversation with a student for him, and he wasn't about to let her leave before he remedied that.  His voice transformed into a dark, snarling tone, one that most would suspect he reserved for threatening someone within an inch of his or her life—although, in reality, that voice was much worse.

"Don't EVER interrupt my class again."

As she stepped into the hall and began making her way out of the dungeon as quickly as possible, she heard him calling something to her from behind the closed door.

"And I hope you're duly punished for your tardiness, but you probably won't be because the rest of the staff here is ridiculously lenient!  And you'd better not let Slytherin down—" and with that, his words became indiscernible from one another.

_Definitely a black mamba_, she thought, shivering.


	4. Aurora's Welcome

Author's Note: I apologize, for I've been in Oregon this whole past week and so I wasn't able to update.  I hope you will all forgive me… but at least this time I'm posting two parts at once!  Yes, well… don't get too excited, because the second one is rather short, but at least I'm back now and I can get back to working on this.

Part 3 ~ Aurora's Welcome

_…Yes, there was something different.  In the topiary.  And it was so simple, so easy to see, that she just wasn't picking it up.  Come on, she scolded herself, you just trimmed the stupid hedge rabbit, so what's the_

_(that's it)_

_Her breath stopped in her throat._

_The rabbit was down on all fours, cropping grass.  Its belly was against the ground.  But not ten minutes ago it had been up on its hind legs, of course it had been, she had trimmed its ears…and its belly._

_Beverly's eyes darted to the dog.  When she had come down the path it had been sitting up, as if begging for a sweet.  Now it was crouched, head tilted, the clipped wedge of mouth seeming to snarl slightly.  And the lions—_

"What's she doing?"

"Looks like she's working."

"What for?  Class is about to end."

"_I_ don't know.  Who is she, anyway?"

"New girl.  Must not have any friends."

  
"That's hard to believe."  Extreme sarcasm met with a chorus of snickers.  Aurora sighed inwardly, trying to block out her classmates' remarks, but they had already broken through her brain's defense and shattered her concentration.  At this point there was no purpose in trying to write any more.  Stopping her work, however, might be interpreted by the onlooking Slytherins as a reaction to their commentary, so she glared even harder at her paper.  People could be so stupid.  Couldn't they go for even a minute without finding fault with one another to make themselves feel better?

"Someone who keeps her nose buried in books all day belongs in Ravenclaw with the other nerds," jeered a voice.  The remark was obviously made loud enough so that Aurora would hear.  Upon realizing this, she found herself less disappointed with the human race and more angry at these jerks.

After squinting at the clock in the corner of the room for an unnecessarily long time, Professor Binns finally announced the end of class.  It sounded as if the words had taken all the energy he could muster; he always spoke as though he were about to nod off because he had bored himself so much—which gives a hint as to what it was like to sit through one of his lectures.  Aurora was thankful she had her writing to pay attention to instead.

Since all the other students had already packed their things away several minutes before the end of class, they could immediately rush out the door at Professor Binns's dismissal.  Getting left behind made Aurora feel even more isolated; as she hurriedly jammed her books into her undersized satchel, she felt frustration rise in her chest.  A friend would be nice.  Not necessary, but nice.  It had already been a week, though, and judging by her fellow Slytherins' remarks, she had no reason to be particularly hopeful.

As she stepped out into the hallway, she felt…what was it?  Guilty?  Yes, maybe…guilty because she was not adoring Hogwarts like it deserved to be adored…guilty because at the moment she wasn't feeling noticeably lucky for her privilege of attending this school.

The halls were gradually growing colder and darker, as if she were slowly reaching the center of an underground mine.  She rounded the last corner and immediately had to exercise all her reflexes to avoid reeling into the boy who stood in the doorway to her next class.  He was tall and lean, but without an iota of frailty, for she could easily see his chest and bicep muscles flexing under his close-fitting robes.  His face matched his well-trimmed body, in that it was definitely striking—square jaw, strong but not overly pronounced cheekbones, glimmering pale blue eyes that worked perfectly to set off his dark hair.  No doubt he was the object of half of Slytherin house's affection—strong, handsome, and Quidditch captain to boot.

And the world's biggest ass, as Aurora would soon learn.

She tapped her foot and raised her eyebrows at him as if to say, "Hey, you moron, have you noticed yet that you're right in the way?"  He responded with nothing more than a smug smile.

"Are you going to let me in?  I need to get to class," she asked finally, making sure to keep her voice innocently polite.  Maybe if she pretended that she didn't realize he was purposely trying to be obnoxious, he would think her an idiot and give up.  No such luck, of course.

"I think you're mistaken—" he said coolly, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb—"this class is Gryffindor and Slytherin."  Realizing that he was the one who had made the Ravenclaw comment earlier, she pretended to miss his meaning, and gave a little sigh.

"I _am_ a Slytherin, dipwad."  With that, she propelled herself at the space she had been eyeing for some time, between his left shoulder and the door jam.  Despite her efforts, though, he caught her with a fluid movement of his arm and gave her a vicious shove backward.

"Go back to the library, you Ravenclaw bookworm," he snarled.  "Your kind isn't wanted here."  She definitely resented that—"your kind" made it sound as if he were talking to an animal.

With a slightly more forceful tone, she responded, "I believe you're the one who's mistaken.  And might I remind you that my kind is _your_ kind, so you'd do best to not go insulting it."  He took visible damage from this revelation, and opened his mouth to unleash a fiery retort, when a thin, pale hand landed on his shoulder.  It was almost as if the skeletal hand were slowly sucking out his life-force; with its touch, the pride melted from his face, his jaw fell slack, and his eyes widened, all of which naturally had the effect of making him look like a fish.  A very very cold fish.  Who is just about to get beheaded and boned and made into bisque.  The hand then turned him sideways and its owner appeared behind.

"MISter Gent, would you like to tell me why you are holding up my class?" snapped a sour-faced Snape.

Jacob Gent floundered for a moment, searching for a way to save himself.  He then pulled free of Snape's grasp and in doing so regained much of his composure—and cockiness.  "Sorry, Professor—it's just this little girl here.  She thinks she should be in this class, but we don't want her fouling up the rest of the Slyth—"

"So you have no excuse then."  From his menacing height he focused a frosty glare down on the boy, who promptly lowered his head and hurried to his seat.  If he'd had a tail, Aurora was certain it would have been tucked.

"And as for YOU, Miss Aurora, I should HOPE that from now on you can take the time out of your harrying schedule to actually come to my class on time."

She had been caught completely off her guard.  _What a jerk!  That wasn't necessary._

"As punishment, you may demonstrate the assignment first thing before the entire class."  He watched her face transform into a mild scowl as she turned away from him and headed to an empty seat in a back corner.

_You got off lucky, child_, he frowned.

A/N #2: Did anybody catch the fish pun?  I thought about putting in a second one, replacing "searching for a way to save himself" with "searching for a way to get himself off the hook," but I figured that was going a bit far… ::grin::

A/N #3—THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE: Since Aurora's writing is supposed to be noticeably good, I stole a passage from a Stephen King book I recently read.  (When her writing starts sounding stinky later on, you'll know I stopped using his words ^_^)  I give him 100% credit for this passage and apologize for the changing of pronouns.  Ten points to the house of whoever guesses which book it came from.  (Only ten, it's not that hard!)


	5. The Infirmary

Part 4 ~ The Infirmary

The slim, black-haired boy shifted his weight on one of the starchy-sheeted beds in the infirmary.  Too much white…it stained so easily.  Pondering this, he gently touched the corner of his mouth, which had stopped bleeding for the most part.  Madame Jonquil was off somewhere digging an anti-bruise potion out of her stock, but already a large, tender purple spot was appearing just above his left eyebrow.  The right sleeve of his robe was torn and charred where the flames had eaten at it before he could put them out.  Once again he'd been punished for succeeding too easily in his classes—apparently he had known one too many answers on that test today.  Maybe he should have waited a few minutes longer before turning in his paper.

Thank goodness the thugs were too stupid to even know any curses to put on him.  He might have defended himself anyway, though, if they hadn't gotten his wand away from him first; he could have defended himself with his wand every time if there weren't always so many of them.  He had pretty much given up trying, though.  It was easier to just get the beating over with…

For some reason, James Potter crossed his mind, and his mouth filled with the bitter taste of hatred.  No, wait—that was blood.  His lip had started bleeding again.  If he could have grinned without the cut reopening further, he would have; James was exactly the kind of person who, as the saying goes, he loved to hate.  He honestly enjoyed their rivalry, and he frequently initiated conflicts on purpose.  Something about the exchange of wit—always wit before physical blows—and his ability to completely ruffle James's feathers the wrong way made him happy, because it made him feel like they were equals.  Even though Potter was scheduled to become Head Boy next year, this skinny, beaten-up boy could still get the better of him in half their skirmishes.  Like the last one, for instance.  He'd set James's potion on fire and by some miracle managed to convince their professor that it was entirely the Potter boy's fault.

He could not help but let out a soft laugh and a wide smile at the memory.  He cursed aloud as his lip split open again and blood trickled down his chin and dripped all over the white sheets.

Author's Note: Yes, I know it's short.  And in case I didn't make it clear, yes, this **is** a flashback-y type thing.  Yeah.  Sorry… I usually try to avoid unnecessary A/Ns.  Okay, well, my HP movie DVD is calling to me, since I just got back from my week-long trip today and I have yet to see it… hope you all enjoyed this chapter—I don't know why, but I think it's one of my favorites.


	6. The Library

Part 5 ~ The Library

_Come on, lazy.  Get working_, Aurora's conscience snapped.

_But it's so warm by the window_, she answered it.

_NOW!!!_  She winced.  Was it possible to hurt one's own ears by yelling at oneself?  Aurora wasn't sure, but she was pretty certain she had just done it.  With a sigh, she lifted herself from her chair.  She felt a bit like a cat, drowsy from the pleasant sunlight streaming through the window, and she was less than eager to go searching the cold shelves of the Hogwarts library for the book she needed.  With that in mind, she did it anyway; and if she'd had a tail, it would have been switching testily.

Ah, there it was—the book she needed.  That hadn't taken so long.  Just as her hand landed on it, though, so did someone else's.  Aurora whirled around to find herself face-to-collarbone with possibly the tallest girl she had ever seen.

"Oh, excuse me," Aurora apologized, pulling her hand back.  She had expected the girl to react in a similar manner, or even to get selfishly irritated, but instead the girl began to laugh.

"You're a SLYTHERIN," she chuckled in her strong voice.  "You aren't supposed to apologize."

"Oh, are we supposed to be impolite?"

"Well, I haven't met a nice one yet."  She giggled again.  "But you don't seem to act like the others."  
  


"Maybe that's why none of them like me," Aurora remarked dryly.  The girl raised her eyebrows.

"I doubt that's such a bad thing."  There was a noticeable pause.  "So, you researching for the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay, too?  Here, I've already got a lot—want to see?"  Without giving Aurora a chance to answer, she plucked the book off the shelf and led her by the elbow to a table covered with ill-balance stacks of books and bits of parchment.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Aurora, who was feeling rather ruffled at the girl's brashness but also surprised at the help being offered to her.

The girl grinned, tapping the volume she'd just gotten off the shelf.  "Not as long as you don't mind me looking through this first."  Aha, ulterior motives.  Now it was Aurora's turn to laugh.  Apparently the girl didn't intend to read it anytime soon, though, for she suddenly leaned over and inquired with a confidential air, "What's it like in Slytherin, anyway?"

Aurora blinked.  "Like any other house, I would suppose."

"Yeah…"  Although she was agreeing outwardly, it was obvious that she was skeptical.  "But you guys have to hang around Snape more than anyone else!  He gives me the ooglies."  She mad an odd gesture, scrunching up her shoulders and shuddering while sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes.  "Isn't he slimy?"

"The absolute worst!" Aurora laughed.  She wondered, though, how the girl could be so bold as to say something like that to a Slytherin.  "I always feel like those dead animals floating in the jars are staring at me."

"Aaahh, me too!" the girl squealed.  "Like they're going to…to…I don't know, come after me in the dead of night and…"

"…Suck the very soul from your body and have it for breakfast the next morning?" Aurora finished.  Either she had hit the bull's-eye with this one or missed the target entirely, because the girl thought this was absolutely hilarious.

They both stopped laughing at almost the same instant, but for different reasons.  By way of a quick glance at the clock, the girl had realized that she was late to meet one of her friends, and she quickly began to gather her things.  She slid several pages of notes across the table to Aurora, implying that she would lend them in exchange for the book.

"Maybe she can get this from me at dinner?" the girl asked, indicating the book.

Unfortunately, Aurora had not had so pleasant a reason for silencing herself; rather, she had just simultaneously spotted Jacob Gent entering the library and the blue crest of Ravenclaw on the girl's robes.  Aurora was filled with panic at the realization that if the two met, she would never have any peace from the other Slytherins again.  Although she wasn't afraid of them, she wasn't about to intentionally make her own life into a living hell.

Not that it wasn't hell to run away from the one person who had been nice to her.

"No, I…maybe I…better not," she fumbled, backing toward the sanctity of the concealing shelves.

"What?"

"I've got to go.  Goodbye."  Leaving the notes and book behind, she rushed toward the door, hoping to pass Gent without arousing his attention.  When she neared him, he stepped in front of her, jabbed an elbow in her ribs, and muttered something snide, but Aurora was so glad that he apparently hadn't seen her with the Ravenclaw girl that she brushed him off without a word.

It was only later, when she had enclosed herself in the emerald drapery of her bed that she began to regret her actions.  She hadn't even gotten the girl's name.


	7. The Greenhouse

Part 6 ~ The Greenhouse

A rich, earthy smell penetrated the thick air.  Even if you were to search every facet of the planet, you could find no place that has quite the same pungent atmosphere as a greenhouse.  Everywhere you step you are surrounded by the aroma of dirt and earth and life.  Although the interior is damply warm, it is also shadowy and dim.  Yes, there are few things in life more pleasantly intoxicating than a trip to a greenhouse.

This trip was going particularly well, too.  Professor Snape lifted a handful of potted herbs to his long nose and inhaled deeply, allowing the spicy odor to fill his lungs.  He especially loved to visit the greenhouse after classes, when there were no pesky students scuttling about.  Being extremely susceptible to injury from the sunlight, he almost never ventured outside the castle during the day except for when he paid visits to Professor Sprout's herbs.

Few people realized the connection between Herbology and Potions, but the two studies were closely linked.  Unless one doesn't mind explosions or strange diseases, one had best have an extensive knowledge of herbs before attempting a difficulty potion.  Snape himself had sheer mastery of the theories and facts of herbology, but he had never come close to displaying anything like Professor Sprout's knack for tending plants.  He never much cared for the live stuff, with its springy resilience; it always seemed determined not to cooperate.  He greatly preferred dealing with them after they had already been plucked, dried, and silenced forever.

Snape peered through the nearest window, whose clear plastic panes made the October sun appear warped and twisted.  In spite of its slight deformity, he could see that it was sinking low on the horizon.  He probably should have headed back a while ago, as he still had several second-year essays to grade.  He hated second-years.  The only students more clueless were the first-years, but the second-years thought highly of themselves since there were these people below them.  Because of this, he particularly enjoyed angering them.  Perhaps it was his divine duty to keep people in their place.  Maybe he should assign an absurdly difficult potion sometime soon and watch them agonize over it.  He was running low on beetle eyes and kudzu root, though…

He had just come to the conclusion that he should make a trip down to Hogsmeade the next week for some supplies when he reached the bottom of the stairs that led into the hall to his living quarters.  Although the accommodations given by the school left little to be desired (a monstrous wardrobe; a personal washroom and bathtub; a huge, canopied bed complete with thick drapes of richest velvet—dark green, in Snape's case), professors were encouraged to bring items, even whole pieces of furniture from home, since they in fact made their home at Hogwarts more days of the year than not.  Snape's stoic nature led him to a rather cynical dislike of any kind of emotional fluff in his living quarters, so there was little décor of any sort in his room; however, there was one piece of which he was most fond, despite the fact that he rarely used it for its intended purpose.

The looking-glass suited his fancy perfectly; through the years it had lost its sheen and was now very dull, and the frame had aged similarly, its once bright polish now blackened by tarnish in the crevices of the intricately swirling pattern.  It was to this piece to which he was inevitably drawn whenever he entered the room, for some reason quite apart from vanity.  Every person has at least one hobby in which they delight but would be humiliated to have anyone else witness; Snape (though he would never admit it) enjoyed practicing ominous or sneering facial expressions.  This time, however, he could not seem to even bring his lips into a casual snarl, for somehow discontent was buried deep within his heart.  Oh, it wasn't like he was ever completely content—after all, he had to deal with second-years on a daily basis.  Egads, did he hate second-years.  But this kind of unrest was different, and it had been gnawing at the edges of his mind all day.  He had hoped that a trip to the green house might quash the feeling…and it had, for a moment, but that moment had been tauntingly fleeting.

He turned his head this way and that, examining the sharp angles of his face.  No matter which feature he focused on, though, the displeasure continued to grapple with his senses at the back of his mind.  Up until this day, he had always been oddly fond of his unnaturally pale skin; it gave him a somewhat unearthly appearance that he rather liked.  So why was it now that he found himself glaring into the tarnished looking-glass, feeling somehow inadequate?

It's that damn— 

NO.  He dashed the thought from his brain before he even had time to finish it.

Sighing, he turned to see a stack of essays piled on his nightstand.  Why the hell had he brought them up here earlier?!  It was bad enough that their filthy parchments filled his office—what had he been thinking, that they'd look better if he took them to his bedroom?  With a whisk of his arm, he scattered the pile away.  He was in a foul mood.  At the moment he wanted nothing more than to shut himself out, to gain some peace from those stupid … second-years.

Or perhaps from the cacophony in his head.  His turbulent emotions had suddenly turned volatile, and everything displeased him.  He hadn't felt exactly this way in a long time and didn't know what to—well, he know what he FELT like doing.  He rather wanted to scream.  Not scream exactly, because that was a noise of weakness…but to somehow let out all his frustration at the inescapable discontent creeping in on him in one mighty roar.

Instead, he irritably jerked the drapes together around his bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

A/N: Yes, I know I've been a jerk and I haven't updated in forever.  At least I'm still working on the story!!  Clearly I haven't abandoned it!


	8. Letters

Part 7 ~ Letters

The day after the occurrence in the library, Aurora still was feeling no better.  In fact, she was beginning to feel worse as with every muttered insult from one of her classmates she further regretted not even finding out the girl's name.  It was all because of Gent.  If such a thing truly were possible, her loathing for him was deepening.  She was particularly upset that the whole thing was ruining her mood on Halloween, her favorite holiday.

She constantly reminded herself that the festivities wouldn't have been much fun anyway, since she had to sit with the rest of the Slytherins and listen to their asinine remarks.  Apparently, for some reason, even the smartest people felt the need at one time or another to engage in ridiculously stupid humor.  (Although she was somewhat revolted by the notion, Aurora was certain that she was no exception to the rule.)  But _still_…Didn't they _ever_ stop thinking it was funny to call her a Ravenclaw?  Was it really THAT entertaining?!

It was her feelings of regret, though, that eventually drove her prematurely out of the Great Hall, while her carousing classmates stayed to feast and insult one another.  She trudged up and down twelve flights of stairs to the Slytherin Common Room, but when she finally reached the entrance, she realized that she really didn't want to go in.  Sighing, she slumped down against the wall.  What she really needed was some fresh air.  She wondered if she would get in trouble for going up to the high north tower at night.  It was only a bit after nine o' clock, though…Yes, she would go.  More than anything else at the moment, she wanted—no, needed—a taste of chilly, crisp October air without having to share it with anyone else.

Unfortunately, when she slipped though the threshold at the end of the top staircase into the clear nigh, Aurora discovered that she was not the only one to have the idea.  Someone else was standing at the edge of the roof, leaning against the stone battlements, back toward her and face toward the stars.

Wait.  She knew that tall, lank figure…that rigid stance…that unwashed hair…

HolymotherofGodit'sSnapeohshitifheseesmehe'sgonnasnapandgivemedetentionforweekssinceI'mnotsupposedtobehereand

She dropped noiselessly to the cool stone and shimmied underneath a bench.  With trepidation, she watched as at last he turned his gaze away from the cloudless sky and stalked past her hiding place.  Man, did he look pissed about something.  Was that why he hadn't spotted her?

Judging Snape safely out of hearing range, Aurora emerged and ambled to the outer edge that overlooked the dark woods and a tiny, shimmering sliver of the great lake.  During the day, the dark forms of mountains could be spied in the distance, but at night they blended deliciously into the sky, a sea of deep black.  The air smelled fantastic—just like rain.  So clean and fresh and sweet.  She couldn't fully enjoy it, though, so long as the image of Snape's embittered visage pervaded her memory.  It reminded her only too well of her classmates' cruelty.  Damn it!  Those stupid Slytherins could ruin anything, no matter how perfect…

When the chill air began to numb her fingers, she returned to her dormitory.  The other girls all were already asleep, the drapes shut defensively around their beds.  Aurora's owl, resting on his perch on her nightstand, fluttered his wings softly as a greeting.  She was a bit surprised to see him, as she expected him to be out on a night so beautiful as this one.

"What is it, Gestalt?" she whispered.  He hooted softly in response, then, to her surprise, flapped his wings a few times and hopped onto her bed.  She pushed back the curtains and saw, lying propped up on her pillow, a blue book.  When she lifted the cover, a bit of parchment slid out and fluttered to the floor.  Picking it up, she read:

I told my owl what you looked like, and he's good at finding people, so hopefully you've gotten this.  Here is the book; I couldn't ever find you apart from those wretched classmates of yours.  I assume they're the reason you ran away from me in the library?  Don't worry, I understand.  I heard some of the things they said to you (did you notice our houses have Herbology together?)

_   Anyhow, you don't have to write back, but if you want to, my name is Claire Vance.  I promise I wouldn't let on to the Slyths—_

                                                                                 Claire.

The last few words were blurred by Aurora's tears.

*  *  *  *  *

Nov. 2

I'm so glad Jeremiah (my owl) was able to find you.  Gestalt is very sweet.  Does he like the little red owl treats?  If so, I'll give him some of Jere's next time.

   Did you finish your D.A.D.A. essay?

                                                                     Claire

Nov. 15

Ha ha ha.  She does look like one, doesn't she?

   Say, I saw that Jacob Gent kid in the hall today.  It was really crowded so when I passed him I gave him a good kick in the shin and he couldn't tell who it was.  Ha ha.

   Professor Flibbett says we should get the essays back in the next few days.  I'm pretty anxious because I'm afraid I might have gone a little off-topic.  I just got a little carried away with my research.

   Are you ready for the big Charms test?  I'm getting together with some friends to study tomorrow.  I wish you could come =(

                                                                           Claire

Dec. 11

Wow, I was counting your letters today.  Thirty-one!  They don't even fit in my drawer any more unless I perform a shrinking spell on them.

   I'm glad my advice works for you.  I know I kind of give it a lot, and it sometimes makes people mad.  Although that's usually when I'm warning them that a boy doesn't like them or something.  Ha ha!  People usually tell me that I generally give good advice, but you're the first person to say that everything I tell you seems right.  (Guess I've got YOU fooled!  Ha ha ha!)

   I've noticed that you've seemed a bit cheerier in your more recent letters.  Are the Slyths starting to leave you alone?  I hear Gent's found a new victim.  A Gryf, right?  Well, I guess that's the way things are supposed to go…

   When is the Yule Ball?  Do you know?  Are you going to go?  I'm not into the whole dance/date thing, but it sounds like a lot of fun.  I thought I heard that this year they might make it a masquerade ball!  (???)  That would be VERY fun.  Maybe we could even all charm our voices so that NOBODY will be able to recognize anyone else.

   Hey, but you and I could think up a code-phrase or something, so then we could actually talk at the ball without anyone knowing!

   Uh oh, Professor Slimyface is giving me the evil eye.  I better go quickly before he realizes I'm not taking notes!

                                                                         Claire


End file.
